The day after busking in Huntingdon I decided I needed a few days away in the boat. It had been far too long since I'd been out on a trip. I set off from my home mooring and a few hours later I arrived at one of the Middle Level Rural moorings, about which I have written before. Never actually having tried them out to see how useful they were I headed for Skylark, near Stonea, which is the nearest one to me. Here is a video describing what I found.
I did have a second video showing how difficult it was to moor at Skylark, but Blogger tells me I've exceeded my allocation of space. As I tried to pull the boat in it grounded out in shallow water a few feet from the bank. Somehow I managed to throw some mooring lines on to the bank and jumped, hoping I could reach the bank without falling in and/or losing the boat. I just about made it, but could not pull the boat in much further. Although time was getting on I had some late lunch and decided to try and get to the next nearest rural mooring at Ramsey Forty Foot Village, which was still a few hours away. I arrived as the sun was dipping, but at least the water was deep enough to be able to moor the boat safely - that is if I don't count the number of times I slid down the steep, slippery bank on the wet grass and nearly into the water. This so called "rural mooring" looked rather more like it was situated in the middle of a housing estate.
The following morning I was able to have a leisurely breakfast while I watched an angler set up his fishing spot on the other side of the water close to the bridge in the village centre. I was pleased to see that, even though he pulled his car on to the verge between the road and the river it took him longer to empty the boot of his vehicle and set up than it takes me to set up my busking rig. I felt very smug.
After that I headed towards Ramsey Town, where I hoped no one else had moored. The plan was to unload my instruments from the boat on to the trolley and wheel them into town. Ramsey is approached by water down a narrow waterway called, "High Lode". As it went by Bill Fen Marina I thought I would top up with diesel. Of the three marinas on the Middle Level I think Bill Fen is the most attractive. It is privately owned and the owner has created not just space for boats to moor inside a flooded compound, but also a beautiful wildlife haven. I'd phoned ahead to make sure I could get some fuel. The pump is at one end of a mooring place so boats the size of mine have to wind round and reverse in. There is plenty of space for such a manoeuvre and I was easily able to reverse gently into the space. As I've written before, there is no control over direction when reversing. The wind does its thing and takes the boat where it will. To aim for a specific space one needs to use quick bursts of forward gear to correct the heading before resuming in reverse. It is an interesting way of moving and can test the skill of the boater, specially if there is much of a wind. Thankfully I was able to sidle up to the mooring without mishap, even with people looking on. As any boater will tell you, providence saves accidents up for when spectators are present.
The groundsman at Bill Fen was struggling to get the pump to share its bounty. I could see a mist rising from my filling pipe, which struck me as something I'd never before noticed. It was also making strange sounds that did not sound like the satisfying gurgling of a diesel pump in delivery mode. Seeking further advice from a long time resident we all came to the conclusion that the fuel storage tank was empty. I was hoping that nothing other than air had been pumped into my fuel tank. I didn't fancy having to clear blocked fuel pumps, pipes or injectors; specially injectors given the problems I'd experienced a couple of years ago.
I continued down Ramsey High Lode and turned the boat in the tight space to moor where I knew I could get out quickly should I need to. I set up my trolley and loaded it with instruments ready to find a busking spot in the town, about a fifteen minute walk.
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